The Spark

By Edith Wharton

'The Spark' is the third of four books set in Old New York. When Hayley Delane discovers that there's more to his mentor than meets the eye, he realises that he needs to change his way of thinking. 'The Spark' is a poignant and often funny exploration of the relationship between two men. At the same time, Wharton uses the novella to take some acerbic pot-shots at a society where appearance seems to carry more weight than genuine goodness. An elegant and humorous story about stories themselves.-

• Language: English
• Publisher: SAGA Egmont
• Release date: Jun 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9788728127278

Edith Wharton

Edith Wharton was born in 1862 to a prominent and wealthy New York family. In 1885 she married Boston socialite 'Teddy' Wharton but the marriage was unhappy and they divorced in 1913. The couple travelled frequently to Europe and settled in France, where Wharton stayed until her death in 1937. Her first major novel was The House of Mirth (1905); many short stories, travel books, memoirs and novels followed, including Ethan Frome (1911) and The Reef (1912). She was the first woman to win the Pulitzer Prize for Literature with The Age of Innocence (1920) and she was thrice nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature. She was also decorated for her humanitarian work during the First World War.

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Edith Wharton

The Spark

SAGA Egmont

The Spark

Cover image: Shutterstock

Copyright © 1924, 2022 SAGA Egmont

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ISBN: 9788728127278

1st ebook edition

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This work is republished as a historical document. It contains contemporary use of language.

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I

Y ou idiot! said his wife, and threw down her cards.

I turned my head away quickly, to avoid seeing Hayley Delane’s face; though why I wished to avoid it I could not have told you, much less why I should have imagined (if I did) that a man of his age and importance would notice what was happening to the wholly negligible features of a youth like myself.

I turned away so that he should not see how it hurt me to hear him called an idiot, even in joke—well, at least half in joke;{4} yet I often thought him an idiot myself, and bad as my own poker was, I knew enough of the game to judge that his—when he wasn’t attending—fully justified such an outburst from his wife. Why her sally disturbed me I couldn’t have said; nor why, when it was greeted by a shrill guffaw from her latest, young Bolton Byrne, I itched to cuff the little bounder; nor why, when Hayley Delane, on whom banter always dawned slowly but certainly, at length gave forth his low rich gurgle of appreciation—why then, most of all, I wanted to blot the whole scene from my memory. Why?

There they sat, as I had so often seen them, in Jack Alstrop’s luxurious bookless library (I’m sure the rich rows behind the glass doors were hollow), while beyond the windows the pale twilight thickened to blue over Long Island lawns{5} and woods and a moonlit streak of sea. No one ever looked out at that, except to conjecture what sort of weather there would be the next day for polo, or hunting, or racing, or whatever use the season required the face of nature to be put to; no one was aware of the twilight, the moon or the blue shadows—and Hayley Delane least of all. Day after day, night after night, he sat anchored at somebody’s poker-table, and fumbled absently with his cards....

Yes; that was the man. He didn’t even (as it was once said of a great authority on heraldry) know his own silly business; which was to hang about in his wife’s train, play poker with her friends, and giggle at her nonsense and theirs. No wonder Mrs. Delane was sometimes exasperated. As she said, she hadn’t asked him to marry her! Rather not: all their contemporaries{6} could remember what a thunderbolt it had been on his side. The first time he had seen her—at the theater, I think: Who’s that? Over there—with the heaps of hair?—"Oh, Leila Gracy? Why, she’s not really pretty.... Well, I’m going to marry her— Marry her? But her father’s that old scoundrel Bill Gracy... the one.... I’m going to marry her.... The one who’s had to resign from all his clubs.... I’m going to marry her...." And he did; and it was she, if you please, who kept him dangling, and who would and who wouldn’t, until some whipper-snapper of a youth, who was meanwhile making up his mind about her, had finally decided in the negative.

Such had been Hayley Delane’s marriage; and such, I imagined, his way of conducting most of the transactions of his futile clumsy life.... Big bursts of im{7}pulse—storms he couldn’t control—then long periods of drowsing calm, during which, something made me feel, old regrets and remorses woke and stirred under the indolent surface of his nature. And yet, wasn’t I simply romanticizing a commonplace case? I turned back from the window to look at the group. The bringing of candles to the card-tables had scattered pools of